Child's Play
by Checkerboards
Summary: It's never too late to have a happy childhood...with a little help from your friends, of course.
1. Regressive Aggression

It was a lovely day inside Arkham Asylum. The fluorescent lights were buzzing, the floor tiles shone with the patina of years of coming into contact with blood and bare feet, and the orderlies went about their work with the cheerful expressions of people who hadn't had a coworker horribly murdered in almost a whole month.

It was generally fairly quiet in the rogues' wing just after lunch. Not that silence was necessarily a good thing - after all, the wing would be a lot noisier if all the cells had been properly filled. Still, what few rogues were inside the building were napping, or plotting, or indulging in whatever recreation they could find inside their four barren walls.

In cell 4R32, Dr. Jonathan Crane was ostensibly reading a book about some of Freud's more entertaining foibles, like cocaine addiction and his quest for the ever-elusive eel testicle. (It also had a lovely chapter on his phobias, a fact that he'd neglected to mention to the orderly who delivered it to him from Arkham's tiny library.)

But today, the book seemed inexplicably boring. Instead of scanning the text, he was eagerly peering over the edge of his book into the next cell, where a spider the size of his big toe was slowly descending on a collision course with Harvey Dent's head.

Five inches. Four. _Come on, spider_! Three inches. Two...and it stopped, dangling almost lifelessly above the other rogue's face, limp in sleep. Oh, if only he had a camera! The spider swung gently in the breeze from Harvey's open mouth as he snored. _Come on, come on_...it wasn't moving. Something had to be done! What if it went back up to the ceiling without Dent ever seeing it?

In one frantic movement, Crane vaulted off of the bed and slammed a foot into the frame, _clank_ing it hard against the wall. Two-Face jerked awake, scrambling to sit up only to discover that a very panicked spider was now thrashing wildly in his hair. His scream - shrill, piercing, and almost completely terrified - was everything that Crane could have hoped for.

After a frantic, slapping dance, the spider had become nothing more than a smear on the floor. Dent snarled as he stomped up to the shatterproof plexiglass wall of his cell. "You did that on _purpose_," he growled.

"I was just getting up and I _happened_ to kick the bed," Crane said airily, secretly delighting in the dull brick color of anger that was rapidly taking over what little face Dent had left. "Why? Did the little spider _scare_ you?"

Two-Face scowled darkly. "I'm gonna tell on you and you're going to be in _so much trouble_," he grumbled. "GUARD!"

No! What was this? Rogues didn't tell on other rogues, that was the rule! That was the agreement that they'd...well...that they'd _agreed on_! "Tattletale!" he hissed angrily.

"Creepo!"

"Scaredy-cat!"

"HEY!" an orderly shouted. Both rogues fell silent, though they still glared defiantly at one another. "What's going on?"

"He put a spider in my cell!" Two-Face accused petulantly, pointing an acid-scarred finger across the hallway.

"Did not!" Crane protested.

"Did too!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

The orderly watched the two rogues bicker for a moment. This was...this was _weird_. He was used to the normal brand of weird. Things were always weird at Arkham. (Obviously. If things _weren't_ weird at Arkham, the world itself might have gone mad.) Still, he'd never seen two grown men act so much like...

"Stupid-head!"

"I know you are, but what am I?"

"Shut up!"

"Make me!"

"I don't make monkeys - I train 'em!"

Like _children_. "Hey!" The two rogues broke off their argument and glared at him sullenly. "There is no way that he could have put a spider in your cell," he told Two-Face.

"See?" Crane crowed triumphantly, smirking at Two-Face.

"But he _did_!" Dent whined. Crane stuck out his tongue. "He's making faces at me! Make him stop!"

"I don't want to hear it!" the orderly snapped, unconsciously adopting the tone of voice that he used when his two daughters were arguing over something extremely trivial. "Unless the two of you want something to drink, you'd better be quiet and behave yourselves!"

Both rogues' lips clamped tight at the thought of another visit from Mr. Thorazine. The orderly stood for a moment, making sure that they'd behave themselves, and then hurried off toward the records room. The docs didn't care much when the orderlies wrote down specific craziness, but it'd come in handy later to back up the story he was going to tell at the bar. Without it, no one would ever believe that Two-Face would get so upset over a stupid _spider_ - or, for that matter, that Jonathan "Mr. Dignity" Crane would lower himself to an argument of that intellectual caliber.

* * *

Robinson Park was surrounded by a glowing moat of police cars, lights twirling merrily in the springtime sunset. Batman ghosted up behind the commissioner. "Nice night," he graveled.

Jim Gordon twitched with surprise and spun around. "I wish you'd stop doing that," he grumbled.

Batman ignored a phalanx of policemen hustling by with an enormous tank of weedkiller. "What's she doing?"

Gordon sighed. "Everything came to life and kicked all the people out of the park at around three. Ever since then, all we've heard is her talking. Something about subjects." He frowned and took his glasses off to clear a smudge. "She doesn't normally experiment directly on people. Maybe you could -" But by the time he'd put his glasses back on, Batman was already up and over the wall that wrapped around the park like a concrete poncho.

It didn't take him long to find Ivy. A quick jaunt into the treetops with his thermal binoculars and he had her location pinpointed halfway across the park, fast asleep in a bundle of vines stuffed into the bend of a tree limb. He leaped from treetop to treetop until he was fairly near to her and slowly picked his way down to the ground.

After ducking into a gap between two saplings, he was through into a brand-new thicket of flowering shrubs and evergreen trees. He leaned close to one of the trees, rubbing the needles between his fingers to see if they'd been altered somehow. The plain green needles broke off easily under his hand and obediently crumpled under the pressure of his fingers.

"Don't you touch the duke!" An imperious green head crowned with an untidy thatch of red hair emerged from the nearby vine nest. Green eyes glared balefully in his direction. The vines spilled gently to the ground, carrying the rogue along with them and setting her bare feet tenderly on the earth.

Batman almost physically recoiled in shock. For the first time in a non-Arkham setting, she was wearing _clothes_! Admittedly, they weren't exactly standard clothes. In fact, the poufy green dress looked like it had been stolen from a costume shop specializing in fashion in the mid-1100's, while the cheap black velvet cape could have come from any of the Halloween stores that popped up across the city every October like a seasonal rash. The solid silver tiara set with diamonds, however, was all too real, and had probably come from the jeweler's across the street.

Poison Ivy stalked over to the smallish tree and pointedly shoved Batman aside with her hip. "I'm sorry, Your Grace," she cooed to it in a bad imitation of an English accent. "The _knave_ here has no manners."

Knave? Your Grace? Batman was taken aback by this fresh outburst of insanity. What had caused this new fascination with medieval royalty?

"Well?" she demanded, tapping one foot in the dirt. She frowned as he didn't jump to her bidding, whatever it was. "_Bow_ to your queen," she insisted, folding her arms. "That's me," she added, unnecessarily, in a stage whisper.

Things had gone far enough. Instead of bowing, he lashed a hand out and caught her around the wrist. "Peasant!" she shrieked, writhing under his grip. "To touch the queen means _death_!"

Finally, something that he understood. With his free hand, he withdrew the bottle of herbicide that went with him to every Ivy apprehension and waited for her next inevitable move.

"Don't you _dare_ hurt my subjects!" she screeched, kicking him in the ankle. A vine whipped around his neck, tightening as if it was a boa constrictor who had had one too many novelty pictures taken with tourists. With one squirt of herbicide, it was brown and dying.

"You're going to Arkham," he growled, tugging her toward the nearest path.

"NO!" she screamed, stamping her feet into the dirt and sobbing. "NO NO NO! I DON'T WANNA GO TO ARKHAM! YOU CAN'T MAKE ME I DON'T WANNA NO NO NO NO **NO**!"

This wasn't like Ivy at all. She hadn't tried to seduce him - she wasn't even half-naked, for once! - she hadn't tried to sic a troupe of pheromoned minions on him, and most importantly, she was throwing an all-out two-year-old's tantrum. Okay, so Ivy threw tantrums a lot, but there was a distinct difference between her normal icy rage and this humiliating display of tears and thrashing about.

Well, if she was going to behave like a little kid, then that's how he'd treat her. "You're _going_," he snarled, kicking a slithering tree branch out of their way.

"NO!" she howled, flailing with her free hand and grabbing at her precious plants. She got a grip on one smallish tree trunk and pulled, wrapping one leg around it as well to pin herself in place. "NO NO NO!"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Do you want me to kill the tree?" he asked coldly, brandishing the herbicide.

"NO!"

"Then let go."

"NO!"

"Let _go_," he growled, jerking her arm.

"NO NO NO!"

"Then I'm killing the tree." He brought the herbicide closer.

With tears streaming down her face, Ivy slowly peeled herself off of the tree. Loose bark clung to the fabric of her skirt. "You're mean," she wept.

"I hear that a lot," he muttered. "Come on."

With a defiant look on her face, she sank to the ground. "Make me," she snarled, letting herself go absolutely limp. She stuck her tongue out at him from her puddled position on the dirt path.

He considered her for a moment. Maybe this trick would work on beleaguered parents, but it certainly wouldn't work on a man who could bench-press nearly twice his own weight. Without another word, this most super of Supernannies turned on his heel and began hauling the limp rogue through the brush.

She maintained a sullen silence until they were out of the park. As he dragged her onto the concrete sidewalk, her entire body stiffened and she propelled herself upright in one elastic leap. "Lemme _go_, you creep!" she wailed, beating on him with her free hand. A squadron of policemen in biohazard suits rushed over and latched on to her, dragging her away as she screamed "I hate you! I hate you! You _suck_!"

"That was fast," Gordon commented.

Batman brushed a bit of dead creeper off of his shoulder. "Something's not right. Get her to Arkham."

Gordon glanced at the kicking, screaming botanist being loaded into the armored police van. When he looked back, Batman had gone.

* * *

"Computer," Bruce ordered, exhaustion in his voice, "check for anomalies in Arkham's water."

The computer whirred gently. "No unknown or suspicious compounds detected."

"Check for anomalies in Arkham's air and ventilation ducts."

"No unknown or suspicious compounds detected."

"Check for -"

"Supper, master Bruce." Alfred held out a tray with a sandwich and a large glass of water. "I assure you, there aren't any unknown or suspicious compounds in it."

"Ha. Ha." Bruce scooped up the sandwich and took a bite. "Cmmpher-"

Alfred pointedly cleared his throat. Bruce obediently swallowed. "Computer, check for anomalies in Arkham's kitchens."

"No unknown or suspicious-"

"Right, right," Bruce muttered, taking another bite.

"Are the staff of the asylum aware that you've filled their facility with probes?" Alfred inquired.

"No," Bruce said flatly. "They're also not aware that I've hacked into their intranet. Computer! Look for references to childlike behavior in therapy sessions at Arkham and police records." The therapy notes were a long shot, since most of the psychiatrists didn't bother transcribing anything into the computer where it could be useful, but maybe he'd get lucky this time.

_Whir_. "No references in therapy notes. Police records are as follows." The screen lit with a series of reports. Bruce set his food back onto the tray and leaned closer to the monitor.

The Riddler, on escaping from the cops, had paused to mock them by sticking his thumbs in his ears, waggling his fingers, and chanting 'Nyah nyah nyah-nyah nyah' from his seat in a rapidly departing van. The cops had burst in on the Ventriloquist and Mr. Scarface having a tea party with a one-eyed teddy bear. Catwoman had been spotted pulling a heist in the Toys R Us Barbie aisle. Killer Croc had -

The tray flew to the floor, forgotten, as Batman bolted to his feet. Killer Croc had been spotted around several playgrounds in the lower Gotham area. If he had decided to kidnap another easy hostage - or worse, a playmate - there could be serious trouble brewing in the sewers. He stayed in the cave only long enough to grab his special sewer utility belt (the Steve Irwin special, as the boys had lovingly dubbed it) and burned rubber out into Gotham as fast as was humanly possible.

Alfred sighed and began cleaning up the sandwich, which had fragmented into a half-dozen pieces on the way to the floor. At least he hadn't bothered with soup that evening -

_Bzzzt_! The trespasser's alarm sounded, indicating that an overeager someone had hopped the gate. Alfred tucked the last of the sandwich onto the tray and hurried upstairs to answer the summons that he knew was coming. Of course, had he known exactly who was at the door, perhaps he wouldn't have run quite so fast...or at all.

(_to be continued_)


	2. Bored Games

The doorbell didn't often ring during the evening at Wayne Manor. Everyone who ran in Bruce Wayne's social circles knew better than to simply drop by, as he always seemed to be out on a date with some attractive young thing or another. It was up to Alfred to sort through the remaining uninvited guests that unexpectedly turned up. Young children with fundraising goods to sell were given hefty orders and adult solicitors, proselytizers, and false indigents were firmly ignored.

_Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding_-

Alfred sighed as he hurried toward the door. From the sound of it, another little Girl Scout was playing with the doorbell again. "Can I help..." He trailed off at the sight of someone who emphatically wasn't a Girl Scout, though he was amply covered in green. "Can I help you?" he said disapprovingly at the Riddler.

The rogue beamed charmingly at him from under the bill of his neon green baseball cap. "Yeah. Can Batman come out and play?"

"Batman," Alfred said, injecting a note of disbelief into the word. He was well aware that the Riddler had ferreted out Master Bruce's alternate identity ages ago. That didn't mean he had to like it - or to let on that he knew it too.

"Tall guy, dressed in black?" The Riddler shifted a full backpack from shoulder to shoulder with an accompaniment of rattly noises. "C'mon. This stuff's heavy!"

"Batman, _sir_," he enunciated with scorn heavily heaped upon the honorific, "isn't here."

"But that's not _fair_," the rogue whined, stomping a sneaker-shod foot down hard. "I'm _bored_! Aren't even the little bats here?"

Alfred glared haughtily at him. "If you wish to locate the Batman, might I suggest lighting the signal for him as everyone else does?"

The Riddler glared right back at him. "You're mean," he pronounced petulantly. "And I don't have to turn on a stupid signal - I can find him myself!" He turned and stamped down the stairs. "**Death tub**," he muttered anagrammatically, just loud enough for Alfred to hear him as he leaped onto the driveway.

Alfred closed the door and indulged in one massive roll of his eyes. Then, with a stifled sigh, he reached into his pocket and retrieved his tiny radio. "Master Bruce?" he said.

Static hissed out of the tiny speaker. He was probably already underground. Marvelous. Alfred tucked the radio back into his pocket and made his way down to the cave, where he began laying out the things he'd need to scrub the sewer-stink off of yet another suit and cape.

* * *

The doctors of Arkham were a special breed. Only the stupid and the brave would choose to work at a psychiatric facility with Arkham's bloody history, and Gotham was chronically short on brave people.

Still, even the doctors had to notice that something was wrong after almost a full week of alarmingly childlike behavior from the rogues. There had been a massive food fight in the cafeteria early on in the week that, for once, had left no guards injured. Art therapy, instead of being a pointless exercise in staring at craft materials, had been taken up with such enthusiasm that the art therapist almost cried with happiness. Instead of idly chatting with one another in the rec room, the rogues were watching cartoons and cheering on the bad guys with wild abandon.

Something was quite definitely up, which is why every rogue in the wing as well as their henchmen had been packed into a disused observation deck in Arkham's east wing. Doctors clustered around the mirrored panels in the room's upper walls, peering down at the child-rogues as they milled about.

The Joker, as always, drew the most attention. There was some debate as to whether he'd been affected by this whole childish nonsense - after all, the man decorated his home with enormous killer toys on a regular basis - but any opportunity to study him in an environment where he could neither see or hear the researcher was one that was always taken by every doctor available.

At the moment, he was examining one of the legion of stuffed animals that the doctors had left strewn about the enormous room. The pale blue bunny with the stitched-on eyes flopped bonelessly in his hands as he turned it over and over.

It flew into the air as Harley Quinn caught him around the middle. "KISSES!" she screeched, triumphantly landing a big juicy one on the back of his neck.

"Eww!" he protested, clawing her hands off of him. "Get off of me!" He thrust backward with a foot, managing to land a hearty mule kick in her midsection. She staggered backward and sat down gracelessly on the ground.

Undeterred, she clambered to her feet again. "I'm gonna kiss you!" she threatened, skipping after him as he bolted across the room. Poison Ivy sighed dramatically as they raced by, ignoring her, and turned her attention back to her activity. She had unearthed a set of stuffed flowers from the pile, and she was carefully 'planting' the little toys in a 'garden' on the tiled floor. A square of tile near her, just the size of Harley should she choose to sit there, remained vacant. "Stupid _boys_," she muttered, carefully patting a mound of invisible dirt over the toy's nonexistent roots.

Jonathan Crane was seated quietly against the opposite wall next to a large teddy bear. He appeared to be unaffected by whatever had gripped the other rogues - that is, until you realized that he was nodding gravely at nothing and scribbling make-believe teddy bear therapy notes into his open palm.

Two-Face and his two henchgirls were wrapped up in a game of Rock-Paper-Scissors. It was slow going, since each round required two flips of the coin for Harvey to decide what he was going to throw. The Hatter's henchman nudged his boss with an elbow, pointing out the fun. Jervis hissed something angrily into his ear. The henchman stalked away and began kicking the hell out of an oversized tiger.

Joker and Harley bolted across the room, scattering a painstakingly arrayed assortment of farm animals that Scarface was holding hostage. "Watch it!" Scarface snapped as a cow knocked him out of Arnold's hands. He sailed directly into Ivy's garden, crushing the fake flowers under his wooden head.

"You _jerk_," she snarled, throwing the dummy over her shoulder. It whacked heavily into Two-Face as he was reaching for his coin. It bounced out of his hand and spun to a halt on the ground, scarred side up.

"You're _dead_," he snarled, whipping around and stalking over to Arnold, fist at the ready.

"I didn't - it was _her_," he gabbled, pointing at Ivy. Two-Face obligingly turned and kicked Ivy squarely in the back.

"HEY!" she bellowed. "You can't hit me! I'm a girl!" She slapped him on his acid-scarred cheek, fingernails nearly missing his eye.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah!"

Two-Face drew back a fist to punch her in the face. Unfortunately, his extended elbow was at just the right height to thump the passing Joker directly in the chin. Never one to ignore a fight when he could make it worse, the Joker shoved Harvey mid-punch directly into Ivy.

The room dissolved into a screaming, wailing bundle of fists, feet, and teeth. Harley leaped into action, ignoring the brawl in favor of kissing the Joker whenever a bit of him was near her mouth. The Scarecrow and the Mad Hatter drew back against their walls, hoping that no one would notice them.

"Break it up. BREAK IT UP!" a thundering voice commanded. The fight grudgingly came to a halt as a team of orderlies waded in and yanked the combatants apart. The rogues huddled sullenly together on the far wall, rubbing their new owies and subtly shoving one another in places where the orderlies couldn't see them.

The lead orderly unzipped his waist pack, revealing an array of newly filled syringes. "You're going back to your cells to take a little nap," he said grimly as he extracted one.

The rogues clustered together, all animosity forgotten in the newly awoken terror of getting a shot. They each scrambled to get someone, _anyone_ in front of them.

The Scarecrow, flailing madly, ended up at the front of the group. "I didn't even _do_ anything!" he protested, trying to force his way backwards into the group. The orderlies caught his arms and dragged him forward. He thrashed wildly, digging his heels into the linoleum and jerking his arms as hard as he could to try and break free. The orderlies thwarted his escape attempts with practiced ease and kicked his legs out from under him repeatedly until he ended up pinned facedown on the floor. "I was being _good_ - OWIE OWIE OWIE!" he wailed as the lead orderly jammed the needle directly into his backside.

An adorable barrage of fuzzy creatures rained down on the orderlies as they attempted to seize their next target from the tiny group. Dodging the rain of puppies and kittens, they dove in and snatched one rogue after another until the entire group lay slumbering peacefully on the floor.

In the observation deck, the doctors drew back from the window. "What happened to them?" a doctor breathed, in awe of the transformation he'd just witnessed.

"Who cares?" Everyone's gaze shifted to a young doctor with one hand pressed on the glass. He turned to face them, wild-eyed with an idea. "They're _children_ now. All the traumas, all the bad influences that made them what they are today...we can _erase_ them. We can _fix_ them!"

The enormity of the idea hit the medical professionals like a sledgehammer. Could they really cure the rogues? Could they really take that warped group of criminals and remold them into productive members of society? Think of the lives to be saved! Think of the respect to be won!

Think of all the _money_ they'd get from the book deals!

Dr. Carlson, head of the asylum, grinned widely. "Get some child psychologists down here. Gentlemen - and ladies," he added hastily to the handful of women in the room, "we're about to do something truly magnificent."

* * *

Sometimes being a sidekick was no fun at all.

Then again, Dick mused, watching Bruce and Alfred scrape layers of sewer muck off of yet another Batsuit, sometimes it was pretty damn awesome.

The week had been a spectacular failure on the part of the heroes. Gotham was a seven and a half mile square, centuries-old city that had spawned a sewer network which was only surpassed in complexity by the Gordian Knot. There were dead ends, and switchbacks, and rotted-out pump rooms that required a ten-minute bout of extreme gymnastics merely to move a few feet forward. Somewhere in all of that sprawling, decaying mess lurked Killer Croc and whatever trouble he was currently brewing.

After day three of fruitless searching, Dick had inquired if things might go a little faster if he were to join in. Surely they could cover more ground as a team. After all, if Croc was acting as childish as all of the other rogues, surely Dick would be able to out-think him. Surely they could -

He had been silenced by a glare that said _you know better_. Dick had never been allowed out to fight Croc in all of his years as Robin. Personally, he thought it was ridiculous. He was old enough to drive, he was old enough to vote - surely he was old enough to kick some reptilian ass.

Batman's answer was always a flat no. On the bright side, he mused, sipping his daily ration of soda pop with his feet crossed on the desk, it meant that he didn't have to carefully decontaminate his suit as Batman had done for the last six days.

Bruce and Alfred gingerly scooped the sewage-strewn Batsuit up from either end and began hauling it toward the decontam vat. The filthy cape dragged on the ground, leaving a wide trail of grunge on the cleanly-swept cave floor. They hoisted the suit waist-high and chucked it in, avoiding the splash with practiced ease as they reached for the scrub brushes.

The trespasser alarm went off with a quiet _bzzzt._ Bruce and Alfred looked at one another, swathed in aprons and elbow-length rubber gloves. "I'll get it," Dick offered, bounding up the stairs before either of the adults could stop him.

He swung the massive manor door open. The Riddler, bearing an overloaded backpack, blew out a disgusted sigh at the sight of someone who wasn't Bruce. "Can Batman come out to play _yet_?"

"Batman?" Dick said innocently.

The Riddler frowned. "Don't play stupid with me, birdbrain. Where's the Bat?!"

Dick leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Look, what do you want?"

"I'm _booooooored_," the rogue whined. "There's no one else to play with!"

"Find him yourself, if you're so smart," Dick suggested, unimpressed.

"I _did_," the rogue scowled. "This is his _house_."

As Robin, he would have settled the disagreement with a simple punch to the throat. As Dick, however, facing down a Riddler who was clearly off-duty, he didn't bother with such things. "Yeah? Well, just because it's his house doesn't mean he's here."

"What are you talking about?" the Riddler snapped, frustrated. "It's two o'clock on Sunday afternoon! Who _wouldn't_ be home on a day like this?" He gestured angrily at the pouring rain, which was dripping in sheets off of a sad-looking rusty green bike thrown haphazardly in the driveway.

"Batman," Dick answered. "I thought Alfred said you had some super-clever way to find him."

"I do! I did find him. Sorta." Nygma bit his lip, dragging a sneakered toe across the cement. "He was...he was busy," he muttered.

Busy? Since when had the Riddler cared about interrupting Batman? Since when did any kid care about interrupting anyone?...oh. Oh, oh, oh. It wasn't because he didn't want to interrupt Batman...no, that look of stifled fear was something altogether different.

"Scared of the dark, huh?"

"No!" Eddie blustered.

"It's okay if you are," Dick said soothingly, taking a dark bit of pleasure in the way the Riddler was squirming at the thought of braving Gotham's underground. "I mean, those sewers are awfully scary, with all the rats and spiders down there in the dark..."

"I am NOT scared of the dark! I'll show you! I'll go find Batman tonight, you'll see!" The Riddler stuck a defiant tongue out at Dick and splashed down to his bike, ignoring the rain as he pedaled away.

Dick shook his head and headed back toward the cave. The odds of the Riddler actually showing in the sewer tonight were so miniscule that he didn't give warning Bruce a second thought.

It wasn't long before Batman set out, armed with every conceivable Croc-stopping device in his armory and clad in a shiny clean suit. Dick, on the other hand, settled himself down in front of the computer, ready to seriously pound the crap out of the latest digital zombie horde.

"Oh, Master Dick?" Dick turned to see Alfred holding a very long strip of paper. "Your assigned duties for the evening."

Dick scanned the list. Then, with a heartfelt moan, he headed off to the cave's almost limitless supply of exercise equipment to spend the next six hours doing something..._sigh_...productive.

(_to be continued_)


	3. Playdate with Destiny

Sewers in new cities were generally not that bad, since they neatly divided the rainwater from the other, neatly piped muck. Sewers in old cities, where everything mixed together and was sorted out later, were worse.

The sewers of Gotham were some of the oldest, proudest, most disgusting sewers in the world. Attempts had been made to modernize them over the years. Pipes, scaffolding, and other evidence of these abandoned updates littered the cavernous maze and made an excellent home for rats, insects, and a variety of other creepy-crawlies that might be found in the garbage of any exterminator.

This particular area of sewer was also home to one of its most vicious denizens: Killer Croc. In point of fact, tonight it was home to _two_ beings who enjoyed nothing quite so much as a nice fistfight in the dark. Croc was lurking here, and tonight, so was the Batman.

A pair of feet clad in chest-high hip waders splashed into the suspiciously brownish water. Edward Nygma adjusted his backpack and peered into the darkness with the assistance of his flashlight. Being a crimefighter had its perks - not having a 'Kill On Sight' order from the cops was probably top of the list - but being a criminal had its good points too. For example, if someone with a slight passion for riddles wanted to track down someone with a slight passion for bonking people over the head with rocks, he merely had to ask around the Iceberg for a few minutes and people would willingly give him the address.

Right. He was here, and Batman and Croc were...he consulted his bit of paper. They were over _there_, around the series of switchbacks and slanting tunnels that had probably been someone's bright idea to keep the sewers from overflowing. Not that it had helped much - this week's rainstorm had brought the water level up to just below Eddie's knees when it should have been down around his ankles.

He shouldered his rattly, heavy backpack and squidged along the dark tunnel. His bobbing flashlight beam reflected two beady red eyes as a rat popped an inquisitive head out of a hole in the crumbling brick wall. Eddie screeched with horror and hurled the flashlight at it. It missed by a good three feet, bouncing off of the ancient brickwork and sinking forever beneath the depths of the disgusting water.

Panting in terror, Eddie pressed his back against the wall, or as close as he could get with a fat backpack strapped to his spine. He closed his eyes tight and buried his face in his hands. _I'm okay_, he thought frantically. _I'm okay I'm okay just a rat just a rat just a rat it's okay rats have rabies and rats have the plague but I'm okay, it didn't touch me and it's in the wall and it can't get me because rats can't swim it's okay just get out of here and it'll be okay_!

He peeked out between his fingers. The tunnel glowed dimly from the handful of decrepit lights swinging rustily from the ceiling. _Go! Go now_! The rat, almost invisible in the gloom, chittered rat laughter at him as he hustled past.

He whipped around the corner and splashed wildly upward, making the shallow incline of the tunnel feel more like a mountain as he fought the water and the slick footing in order to get as far away from that rat as possible.

Finally, after the second turn, he slowed down. The rat wasn't going to get him. There were lights down here, enough so that he could see, and...well, that stupid Dick wasn't going to get the better of _him_. Scared of the dark? He was scared of more than that, but he was gonna _show him_. He'd find Batman, and then they'd have some fun. Piece of cake.

Someone was talking up ahead. He sloshed as quietly as possible toward the conversation, not noticing the family of mice that peered at him nearsightedly from their hole in the ceiling.

* * *

Batman had finally tracked down the elusive reptilian rogue by painstakingly tracking him from the last playground he'd been spotted at. Instead of racing inside, weapons at the ready, he was crouched inside a handy gap made by a crumbled wall just outside the lair, watching Croc with amazed disbelief.

Croc had been visiting playgrounds, but not to take the _children_. His lair was crammed top to bottom with purloined playground accessories. An old metal slide was positioned below a broken pipe in order to transform it into a makeshift waterslide. Plastic multi-colored tunnels were stacked haphazardly into a sad, filthy fort in the corner. A tangle of broken bars must have been the remains of at least three separate jungle gyms, shattered into pieces under Croc's huge hands.

The rogue himself hadn't noticed Batman lurking in the shadows. His attention was solely focused on the imaginary Batman that was chasing him through the maze of stolen playthings. "I'm gonna get you," he growled menacingly, in a rather passable imitation of the Batman. Then, cranking his voice up an octave, "No, wait! Don't you want to smell my flower?" He belted out a laugh that could have been the Joker's after a bout of throat surgery and leaned forward at the invisible Batman. "Ack! Toxin!" he growled, falling on the ground and thrashing theatrically. It would have been cute if it had been a child. The charm wore off of the game when the actor was a 400-pound block of homicidal muscle prancing about squealing in mock terror in the sewer.

Batman eased backward in his hidey-hole, shaking his head. That looked like the final death knell for whatever sanity Croc had left. Maybe he could talk the doctors at Arkham into letting him have some kind of toy in his pen...

Footsteps pattered on the cement behind him. He whipped his head around to see the Riddler, grinning (appropriately enough) like a lunatic and hauling a tattered backpack on one shoulder. "_There_ you are!" he exulted. "I've been looking all over for you!"

A black-gloved fist pinned him to the wall by his throat. "_Shut up_," Batman growled.

"Who's there?" Croc demanded. "I heard you." Through a crack in the bricks, Batman saw him standing uncertainly at the edge of the water. He peered around, examining each corner, and quickly spun around as if to catch someone sneaking up on him. "No such thing as monsters," he mumbled, trying to reassure himself. "No such thing."

Batman looked along his arm at the Riddler, whose eyes were dancing with mischief. "You're a big scary monster," Nygma whispered gleefully. "Go get him!"

"Shut. _Up_." He pressed Nygma harder against the rotted wall. A crack snaked upward and freed a half-brick, which tumbled into the water after smacking Nygma resoundingly on the head.

"Who's there? I heard you that time!" Croc yelled, his deep voice echoing down the tunnels. His nostrils flared. "_Batman_," he snarled. He splashed into the shallow water, sending up twin plumes of filth as he barreled toward Batman's hiding spot. "I'm gonna _get you_!"

In one smooth motion, Batman dropped the mildly concussed Riddler and swept a handful of explosive-tipped batarangs from their pouch on his belt. _BANG! BANG! BANG!_ The little explosives connected with their targets, sending Croc staggering backward into his badly-built fort.

Dirty plastic tubes tumbled down around him, thumping hollowly as they bounced off of his head. "Not fair," he muttered, sliding into a heap on the ground. "Not -" A final tube dropped from above and whacked him on the skull, silencing him.

The Riddler peeked out from behind the pile of bricks. "Great!" he enthused, leaping to his feet. His backpack fell open to reveal a plethora of brightly colored boxes. "Now that he's out, do you wanna play a game? We could play Scrabble, or Trivial Pursuit, or Scattergories, or chess, or..."

Batman ignored him and picked his way across the shallow pond to Croc. He lay unconscious on the rubble, black scorch marks marring the rags he wore as clothes. The plastic tube that supported his neck had a large green sticky circle of latex on it that was almost identical in color to Croc's neck. In the center of the circle, almost invisible, was a little black device that blinked teasingly at him.

Of course.

"...or Tic-Tac-Toe, or _erk_!" The Riddler spluttered nonsense as Batman grabbed him by the head. "Hey! Get offa me! _Hey_!" Nygma aimed a protesting kick at Batman's knees, which was easily deflected by his body armor.

_There_ it was - a little beige circle right on the nape of Nygma's neck. _Rrrrrip_. "OWIE!" he bellowed, wrenching himself away from Batman and rubbing the back of his neck indignantly. "Ow!...that really _hurt_," he grumbled, examining his fingertips for blood. He stiffened, looking up with a rare look of complete confusion. "Why am I in the sewer with a bag of board games?"

"You wanted to play a game with me," Batman explained, letting a tiny sharklike smile curl one edge of his lip upward.

This was the familiar first move in a game that the Riddler had played all too many times. "Well, look at the time, gotta run - " he chattered, uneasily edging around the Batman as if he was a rabid dog. "People to see, places to - _erk_!"

The pair of weights at the end of Batman's silently-thrown bola thudded hard into his sternum. He went down in a splashing, kicking plume of dirty water, coughing frantically as the disgusting stuff got into his mouth. "You could have just said _please_," the Riddler grumbled miserably as Batman loomed up in front of him, batcuffs at the ready.

* * *

Sometimes detective work relies on countless hours of searching, finding clues, beating information out of people and painstaking research. And other times, like now, it involved nothing more than looking at the giant obvious neon sign of a clue that blinked wildly under one's nose, screaming I DID IT LOOK AT ME I DID IT!

There was only one person in all of Gotham who specialized in miniature devices that changed people's personalities. After making sure that Nygma and Croc were securely ensconced within Arkham's forbidding walls, Batman headed upstairs.

"No. Wait! Will you just...will you _wait a minute_!" Dr. Carlson yipped, delicately avoiding the occasional drip of sewage that flicked off of the end of Batman's cape. "Where are you going?"

In answer, Batman tossed the device that he'd peeled off of Nygma's neck at the doctor. The man caught it with one flailing hand. "This is...oh. Tetch did this?"

"Yes," Batman said flatly.

"Well, that's...I mean, we can take it from here. You don't have to..."

Batman turned and gave the flustered doctor one of his patient, _I-know-what-you're-up-to_ glares.

The doctor wilted. "We..." He straightened, remembering that he was supposed to be in charge here. "We are _trying_ to handle this from our end of things," he declared, stuffing his hands into his labcoat pockets. "They're all behaving like children. What if we could give them a _better_ childhood?"

"In Arkham," Batman pointed out.

"Well, yes. Yes! We could...we could take them outside occasionally, to the zoo, or...if we can alter their behavior _now_, maybe we can alter their behavior as adults!"

Batman scowled. "Or perhaps you'll waste years re-training them to be nice, only to discover that they don't remember any of it when the mind control wears off."

"Why wouldn't they remember?" Carlson seethed.

"Because they don't." They stopped in front of the plexiglass wall that made up the front portion of the Mad Hatter's cell. Batman held Croc's sticky green circle of latex up for Jervis' inspection. "Well?" he graveled.

Jervis grinned cheekily.

"Why did you do it?" Dr. Carlson demanded, flushing crimson with rage as he watched all of his latest hopes and dreams come crashing down around him.

Jervis waved a hand in the air. "_This is a child_!" he exclaimed, pointing to the green circle. "_I always thought they were fabulous monsters_," he confided cheerfully to the irate psychiatrist.

"I take it that you did this for your own amusement?" Carlson demanded coldly.

"_What do you suppose is the use of a child without any meaning_?" the diminutive rogue demanded, sitting bolt upright. "_Even a joke should have some meaning - and a child's more important than a joke, I hope. You couldn't deny that, even if you tried with both hands_."

"What possible _meaning_ could you find in turning the entire criminal population of Gotham into children?!"

Jervis sighed dreamily. "..._find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days_..." He shook his head, his dreamy happiness banished. "_You must be very happy, living in this wood, and being glad whenever you like_!"

Dr. Carlson drew himself up furiously. "Am I to understand that you brainwashed this entire wing to make them _happy_?" he snarled.

Jervis nodded cheerfully. His smile faded as he noticed the angry glare on Carlson's face. "_Of course it would be all the better...but it wouldn't be all the better his being punished_."

"You're wrong there, at any rate," Carlson said flatly. He turned to the nearest guard. "Take him to solitary and _leave him there_...for a week," he corrected himself lamely as Batman gave him a seemingly casual glance.

* * *

The week passed with surprising quickness. Jervis skipped merrily down the hall to the recreation room, accompanied by a silent orderly. (Most staff were silent around Jervis, given that at times it took a fair amount of mental gymnastics to understand him.) The doctors hadn't understood, but who cared? He'd given his fellow rogues a lovely reminder of their happy childhood days, and they'd be certain to welcome him back with open arms.

He trotted into the room and slid into his customary seat at the chess table across from the Scarecrow. Crane looked at him coldly and turned his back on him, revealing an angry red patch on the back of his neck.

"Don't mind him," Harley Quinn said as she sat herself on the table in front of him. "He's just a little sore." She giggled. "Mistah J wanted to say thanks for the laughs. Go on, he's right over there!" She lightly shoved Jervis toward the clown lurking in the corner.

A little thrill of apprehension ran up his back. No, that was ridiculous. He'd done the Joker a favor! Certainly he wasn't going to do anything..._mean_.

"Jervis, Jervis, Jervis," the Joker said, shaking his hand. "What a thrill - what an absolute _delight_ to be so close to the man that upset the entire rogues' gallery in one fell swoop. Bravo, Jervis, bravo! Though I do have to say that you missed the very _best_ part of childhood. Tsk, tsk."

"_I didn't_ -" Jervis stuttered.

"Hey!" Harley interrupted, pointing at his chest. "Ya got somethin' on yer shirt, Jervis!"

He instinctively looked downward. Her long, sharp fingernail flicked him hard on the nose. He stumbled backward, eyes watering.

"Oh, Harley, that wasn't very nice. Tell ya what, Hatsy, I'll make up for her." The Joker drew the Hatter in close with one companionable arm around his shoulder. "You like snacks, right? D'you want a hertz donut?"

Jervis, rubbing his nose, nodded dumbly. The Joker looked at him with a friendly smile and stomped on his foot hard enough to break his big toe. "Hurts, don'it?" he drawled.

Jervis freed himself from the Joker's grasp and limped backward. His shoulderblades collided with something soft. He looked straight up into Ivy's angry gaze.

"Flat tire!" she announced, stomping hard on his as-yet-uninjured heel. His shoe crumpled beneath her foot.

Jervis lurched away from the avenging rogues, stopping only when the Riddler blocked his path. "**Bairn dun in**," he growled, seizing Jervis' arm in both hands and twisting the skin viciously back and forth.

With panic surging into his throat, Jervis whirled to escape, only to find the rest of the rogues' gallery lined up to stop him. With the same evil grin on their faces, they leaned forward eagerly.

"WEDGIE!"

* * *

_Author's Note: It's good to be back. _

_Like always, everything Jervis says in italics is a direct quote from either 'Alice in Wonderland' or 'Through the Looking-Glass', everything Eddie says in bold is an anagram, and everything I say is completely ridiculous. Oh, and rats _can _swim, though very few people know it._

_Stay tuned next week for an extra-special story starring someone...er...extra-special. _


End file.
